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Before her was the darkling sea: Behind the barren mountains rose— A fit home for the broken heart To weep away life, wrongs, and woes! I had now but one hope:—that when The hand that traced these tints was cold— Its pulse but in their passion seen— might these tints behold, And find my grief;—think—see—feel all I felt, in this memorial! It was one evening,—the rose-light Was o'er each green veranda shining; Spring was just breaking, and white buds Were 'mid the darker ivy twining. My hall was filled with the perfume Sent from the early orange bloom: